Posted by: docdenbow | September 30, 2013

Lucky Strike Cigarettes & A Matalan Trilby


A consistent theme on this crappy ol’ self indulgent blog is about my writing. For as long as I can remember I have wanted to be a writer. However,my  memory isn’t very good so my wanting to be a writer is likely to be a pretty much a recent thing. Then again as my memory is pretty unreliable I may have wanted to be a writer for ages. Most of the time I think that I’m an ok writer and can express myself via the written word. Other times I think what I write is terrible. Very often that self appraisal is about the same piece, so I don’t know really. All I know is that the idea of being a writer is very appealing.

I could be sat in a sparsely furnished loft apartment with the sound of Harlem Nocturne gently coming from the record player whilst I cranked out the latest in my series of hard boiled detective thrillers where men would be guys and women would be dolls. Perched on the back of my head would be a sweat stained fedora and beside my battered Remington would be a bottle of Bourbon and a tumbler.antique-remington-typewriter

The telephone would ring at regular intervals and I’d be forced to tell the dolls to beat it as my work has to come first.  I’d also write in the underground press where I’d review jazz and blues and constantly use my column inches to bemoan the decline and extinction of bebop and the good old LP. I would smoke Lucky Strike cigarettes or Chesterfields and hang around in a seedy little bar chewing the cud about the gal that did me wrong with the bar keep Paulo. Paulo would have an encyclopedic knowledge of Frank Sinatra’s Capitol recordings of the 1950’s and we would spend our time trying to decide whether Songs For Swingin’ Lovers or In The Wee Small Hours was the better record. I would always conclude that In The Wee Small Hours was the best leaving Paulo to shake his head and walk to the other end of the bar.

But in real life writing has none even of that seedy glamour. I write at the kitchen table or occasionally in a drafty conservatory. I wear my Matalan trilby, but Mrs D usually advises me that I look like a tw*t wearing a hat in the kitchen. I don’t write on a typewriter, I use a secondhand IBM laptop that got chewed by the dog. The house phone doesn’t ring and my mobile remains silent as the whole world thinks I’m a w*nker. There are no funky sluts trying to entice me away for a touch of middle aged extramarital. I don’t smoke anymore and I know no one Italian or of any other lineage who knows anything about Frank Sinatra other than the simple fact that he was the bloke who sang My Way.

But, I am in a seedy yet glamourous place. I’m inside my own head, pontificating, prevaricating, posturing. I am simultaneously full of confidence and self doubt, assurance and self denigration, tranquility and rage. As a result I hate myself and everyone else for that matter.

Yes, I must be a writer as I am full of neuroses and hangups.

Shame that I ain’t got the time to write anything worthwhile in spite of my best intentions

Ciao For Now

Denbow

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